


Cactus in the Valley

by MadiYasha



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime)
Genre: Gen, harleys old and very gay, i just have a lot of feelings abt cosmic rivalries, platonic cookieshipping, seriously this is entirely platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-02 21:40:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14554119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadiYasha/pseuds/MadiYasha
Summary: A sort of introspective look at May and Harley's strange journey from enemies, to rivals, to friends, to family.





	Cactus in the Valley

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this for #PkmnMonthOfMay's second week, but I really can't wait to post it, oops. 
> 
> I love these two a lot, and writing this fic just made me love them more. It's mostly scenes from canon examined but there's a few original ones, too. This kinda heavily ties into the same general web of Harley headcanons as my previous fic about him--'Nettle'--so if you want some insight on his backstory here, I'd def recommend reading that one!
> 
> Kind of a songfic to the Lights song of the same name! I definitely had it on constant repeat while writing.

**_I never meant to wither, I wanted to be tall_ **

**_Like a fool, I left the river and watched my branches fall_ **

**_Old and thirsty, I longed for the flood to come back around_ **

**_To the cactus in the valley that’s about to crumble down._ **

 

 

Harley storms back to his cabin, a hurricane of aubergine curls trailing behind him like a purple flame. Cacturne thinks quietly to itself—about how it  _ should _ be able to keep up by now—but its legs are short and it’s far too polite, awkwardly angling itself around the patrons of the ferry, desperate not to get its needles caught on anything. By contrast its trainer seems to feel no shame in plowing through them like they’re flower fields he’s longed to desecrate, background static to his life. Harley’s frame is shaking ever so slight as he walks, fists drawn tight in disgust.

When he gets back to the small room, he throws himself face-first on the bed with an unrelenting, bitter exhale. It’s muffled through the pillow, but still loud enough that his pokémon hears it.  Cacturne utters a fragment of its name at him, a simple question that it more or less knows the answer to. Still, it asks it, knowing that the ability to yell about his problems usually offers some weight off its trainer’s chest.

“What was  _ wrong _ with that girl?!” Harley says the first few words of the sentence with his face still buried in the pillow, an abrupt crescendo as he turns to face the scarecrow. It tilts its head, knowing he’s going to continue his rant with or without prompting.

“Did you  _ hear _ what she said about you?! To your face, too?! To  _ my _ face?! Who has the audacity to just walk up to someone and insult their cutest pokémon?!”

“Cac~turne,” it shrugs, always a water hose to Harley’s blazing form.

“I’ll make her pay for it, sweetie pie,” he says, voice taking a hard transition from acid-drenched to sugar-dipped as he sits up to lovingly stroke the pokémon’s face. Cacturne doesn’t know how to tell him it doesn’t really mind being referred to as scary. The sentiment has its own semblance of beauty.

“Every time I close my eyes I see her candy-coated little  _ runt _ face,” he runs his hands wildly across his hat. “It’s so infuriating! She has the nerve to smile like an innocent little mareep while she makes a fool of  _ us?! _ ”

Cacturne watches idly as Harley goes on for a few more beats, flinging all manner of insult in the girl’s direction and only stopping every minute or so to catch his breath. Mid-way through it the pokémon notices it’s a little worried—he’s been angry before, he’s been locked in on other Coordinators before. He’s never been  _ this set _ on revenge before.

Eventually, when the sun has fully set, the man seems to have worn himself out, because his words trail off into nothing and he punctuates his frustrations with one full scream into the shoddy pillow half-hanging off his bed. Harley pulls himself away from it, letting out an almost relieved sigh. His voice is more pouty than anything when it reaches him again.

“Do you want the rest of the cookies?” he offers.

Cacturne’s eyes light up, and it has to stop itself from immediately nodding frantically like an excited child. It steels itself, name a low tone as it inquires if its master wants any.

“Take ‘em,” Harley says, handing the box to his partner, then throwing an arm protectively over his stomach. “I’m gonna go barf, anyways!”

“Cac?” it inquires, as he’s standing up and effortlessly tying his hair into a ponytail on the way to the bathroom.  _ Seasick barf or angry barf? _

“I’ll tell you in ten minutes when I figure it out,” Harley deadpans, slamming the door.

* * *

There’s a boom of thunder somewhere far in the distance, and Harley’s suddenly acutely aware of how open a field he’s in, the way the plains seem to swallow him up like an emerald sea, green on green. He’s already tearing through the rain with clothes soaked through to the bone, looking for some semblance of shelter from the unforgiving skies. Right about now, he’s only second guessing breaking into someone’s secret base a little—the only real thing stopping him is the chance that it’d be occupied and he’d have some brat to sweet-talk.

A hard shiver runs through him, and he clutches his jacket tighter to his chest. The deluge refuses to let up, pouring down on him with no sign of relenting any time soon. It’s only when thunder cracks again that Harley balls his fists and screams bloody murder at mother nature herself for daring to cross him.

The outburst does nothing but run his throat ragged, already irritated from the chill that crept in with the clouds obscuring the tropical sun. The humidity doesn’t do much to warm him, and he trudges onward, toeing the line between livid and resigned.

By some kind twist of fate there’s a cave down by the water, and at this point Harley doesn’t care if there’s a pack of wild mightyena there ready to tear his jugular out—he’s got two fists and five ribbons, and he’s getting to Lilycove and onto that ferry back home if its the last thing he does. When he reaches it, he’s surprised to find the place empty—and small. Not much to it, just a minuscule sort of natural halfway house to wait out the passing storm. He’s heard there’s a lot of sudden rain on this route, but it doesn’t piss him off any less.

The Coordinator practically collapses against the stone wall, but manages to turn it into a kind of half-hearted slide. There, with his back against the wall, the rain starts to fade to a far more comforting sound—drolling, like static to put one to sleep at night. There’s rivulets dripping from his hair, running down the back of his neck, and no matter how close he draws his jacket together, its poor coverage does nothing for his drenched and shivering state. There’s a Pokémon Center far enough ahead that it’s infuriating, but close enough that he can’t just set up shop here and pass out. 

_ God, I hate rain, _ he quietly simmers.  _ I’m moving to Alola. _

He shudders again, an undignified and shaky breath being pulled in through clenched teeth. Harley trails it off with an angry sort of moan, shouting his grievances out loud to no one in particular.

“Nngh, this is all that doe-eyed little ditz’s fault!” he wails. “If she’d just played fair and let me win, I wouldn’t have to be working twice as hard to humiliate her at the Grand Festival!”

Harley can’t count the days since Purika that he’s dreamt of beating her into submission. Can’t fathom the hours that he’s lied awake in bed prying apart her first round appeal, her battle style, how she was able to dance around his dirty tricks and steal the ribbon out of his hands even with angry tears in her eyes and red staining her cheeks. Back then, he’d reveled in the way her pretty little face contorted, flustered and searing holes into him—she was so fun to  _ play _ with. Now, it only reminded him of her resilience, and all he longed to do was  _ break her _ .

He’s only a little bit disgusted at how much she occupies his thoughts. If he weren’t ten years her senior and wildly gay, it’d read on paper like some kind of twisted crush. The way his mind always drifts back to her itches under his skin, but not like a regular kind of hate, not like a regular kind of antagonism—so much more black, so much more enveloping. He finds himself actually looking forward to seeing her again, if only because it raises his chances of absolutely destroying her in front of the entire region.

If emotions are elements, Harley’s grudge crackles off him a blazing flame. Crawling up his back an ethereal mane, ever-present since he’d met her. There’d been others—of course there had been—but nothing so strong as his need to best  _ her _ .

The walls of the cave hover back into view, and it’s only at that moment that the Coordinator realizes he’d drifted off into his blackened daydreams, forgetting the world around him. He pathetically sniffs back another shiver, willing himself to go back to that universe, where he reigns a power-drunken king. Instead, Harley sluggishly turns his head, and is met with two shining eyes.

The man can’t explain it, but peering into the pokémon somehow calms him down. The muted midnight of its sheet flowing in the still air, the sky blue of its eyes, the strangely joyful look it has on its face… Harley becomes easily lost in them all. For a moment, he forgets who May is entirely.

“A shuppet?” he asks it. “All the way out here?”

The shuppet responds to his question with an almost chirp of its name, moving in close to nuzzle his face. There’s a tattered sort of feeling to the fabric hanging off it, but Harley can’t help but feel himself oddly endeared to it. Normally, he becomes his feelings, and a rotten mood cannot be assuaged just by the presence of someone else to distract him from his racing thoughts. This tiny spirit is different, though—just by being here, it’s calmed down a fire even the sobbing skies couldn’t douse.

“My goodness, and an affectionate little one, to boot!”

“Shup, shup!” it cheers back at him, cuddling him closer. He can’t help but laugh, heart swelling in a way that’s noticeably distinct. He follows the thought, always. Impulse control has little place within him.

“You’re such a darling!” Harley says to it, pulling an empty pokéball from his pocket. “Wanna be buddies?”

The ghost lights up almost instantly, looking to him as though it’s lost in some kind of beautiful dream. Harley smiles warmly at it, hoping the softness in his expression will convince it to stay. The shuppet doesn’t need anything more than that—it tackles the capsule at full force, burying itself within its inviting walls. The shell shakes swiftly as ever, sealing with a steady click that tells Harley its mind was made up long ago. 

At some point, the rain outside had stopped. The Coordinator, so caught up in the strange rush of serenity that the pokémon’s simple appearance had made him feel, hadn’t noticed sunbeams breaking through the clouds. He breaches the cave’s entrance, blinking light out of his face. There’s puddles at his feet that act as shining mirrors to the cosmos above, clouds sailing across their surface like surskit on the lake’s edge. Somehow, Harley feels as though he’s stepped into a world entirely different from the one he left.

Walking the path the Lilycove, Hoenn’s blazing sun pulls the lingering chill from his bones. He thumbs over his new friend’s ball in his pocket, learning the shape of it the way a trainer does, the way the energy crackles off it, distinct from his other partners in its own way. He’s a man of kismet, and would be the first to tell you that he’s not too proud to look for the romance that life so often brings. The appearance of a new companion in a bleak situation, reminding him that he should be plotting his revenge, rather than screaming into empty caves—it’s all too beautiful. He knows instantly he’s going to be debuting his new friend in the Grand Festival, and when he beats that runt, it’s going to be  _ twice _ as cosmic.

Still, he can’t help but wonder what attracted the pokémon to him in the first place.

* * *

“I realize that it’s a lot to expect you to forgive me… what I did was really, really not nice.”

Harley wonders, mid-way through his impeccable acting, why people so often complain about the difficulties of apologizing to others. Just throw out a self-aware remark that puts them on the spot. Acknowledge what you can gather they’ve been holding in their heart against you. Say a few sorries. Honestly, it’s just a couple sentences, a couple words. If you rehearse them enough, they fall off the tongue just as easily as your favourite song. There’s  _ nothing _ to this, it’s not even an acquired skill. 

“But I have to at least  _ try _ , don’t I?” he looks to the floor, almost sheepish. “I apologize, May.”

The runt is looking at him with the same deerling-in-the-headlights stare she always seems to be wearing, a void of confusion swimming in sapphire blue eyes. Harley wonders for a moment if she knows what he’s doing, and the piercing green stare at his flank isn’t helping his composure. The thought makes him want to puke, but he needs all the advantages he can get if he’s going to put this plan into action. He confers with an old friend buried deep in his heart, pulling out the waterworks, tears streaming from his eyes. 

“Will you  _ ever _ forgive me?” he wails, a question to force the girl forward.

May’s brain seems to have finally processed the gist of what he’s saying, because she puts on that faux-unsure voice she’s so fond of hiding behind, infuriatingly nonchalant.

“Uh, yeah! Whatever you say,” she says, tone a little shaky as she puts up a hand in surrender. “Don’t even worry about it.”

_ Oh thank god, _ Harley whispers internally. The tears seem to dry from his eyes almost instantly, his voice immediately jumping back to the pitch he’s far more comfortable wearing.

“For real?!” May flinches a little at the sudden noise, but he carries on. “You’ve totally forgiven me?!”

_ Adorable, darling little Miss Tent, esteemed precious gingerbread cookie, bane of my existence and everything I am, _ the words run through his head. She’s not good for much, but if anything, she’s taught him how to play the incredulous fool a little better than he did before. 

“Uh, yeah. Why not…”

To put a bow on the interaction, he grabs her hands in rapturous gratitude as he’s speaking his relief to her, always better when he has a prop to work with. She only winces a little at the touch, and he files it away for later. There’s a certain persuasion to a person who can be easily turned in one’s favour by a tender hand. He just has to _ learn _ tenderness, first.

The green kid’s blazing eyes are still boring into Harley, and so he quickly turns the conversation on him, hand on his polaroid like it’s a weapon he’s waiting to draw. May seems a little more sure of herself when she introduces him. Like she feels a little more safe.

_ Potential obstacle, _ he makes a mental note of the Drew kid. The thought isn’t too threatening. He’s a good Coordinator, but he doesn’t talk much. 

“Bye May! See ya later!”

Child’s play.

  
  
  
  


“But wait, what about all those compliments and nice things you said about me?!”

“I only did that to gain your trust! And you swallowed it all—hook, line, and sinker!”

The look on the runt’s face is like morphine to Harley. It’s everything he’s ever dreamed of, the tremble in her shoulders and the firmness of her jaw and the way her lip shakes—it’s art. It’s everything he’s worked for, paying off. Ever since the day they met he’d been searching and hoping for the opportunity to punish her for what she’d done to him, insulting his best friend, trashing his art, and humiliating him in the contest. The payoff made him feel higher than he’d ever felt, and the sense of being above her coursed through his veins like a sort of electricity. Her despair, her pain, her failings—he remembered, now, how much fun it all was.

“But…! That’s just…!” her voice breaks. “So rotten!”

“Ugh,  _ please _ , cry me a river!” he shoots back. She has the audacity to call  _ him _ out for exacting revenge she deserves? When she was the idiotic, bright-hearted child who so easily fell for it just because he shot a couple sorries her way? 

Harley can’t fathom it, but in five words, she’s made him hate her even more. With five words, with her daring to stand up to him even with tears at the back of her throat, he wants to ring her neck with her bandanna more than he ever has before. She’s so two-faced, so transparent, it drives Harley up a wall that no one else can see it. A Coordinator bursting with skill, with potential, with an amazing talent that could be unlocked—and she hides behind this mask of innocence, of cuteness, of naivety. Always second guessing herself, stuttering out her words, ending her statements as though they’re questions. She plays the fool  _ so well _ that only another trickster can perceive it. Everyone around them is somehow falling for it, but he knows her heart. He knows who she really is.

He knows how to play her game.

His eyes are burning into her, and for a moment, it’s not her he sees. It’s a baby-faced boy with dried tears lingering in his eyes and wild violet locks, nervously stepping onto a stage for the first time in his life. A boy who’d known love, known betrayal, and known that one wasn’t worth the other. A boy who actually  _ woke up _ to the reality of the world. He pushes the image down. He hates her. He hates her with everything he is, he wants her broken and sobbing and  _ gone _ .

“It’s your own fault, anyway, May!” he spits. “Never trust  _ anyone! _ ”

His voice cracks on the last word, its inflection losing confidence, and he has to stop himself from wincing at the sound of it, inviting the strangers eavesdropping around them into the bleakness of his past. 

It’s her he hates.

It’s  _ her _ .

* * *

“You can try every two-bit trick you’ve ever learned and I’ll still wipe the dancefloor with you!”

May doesn’t cry. May doesn’t falter. May’s voice doesn’t shake. Something is different about her. The last time they met, there was a certain resilience Harley couldn’t parse, one that told him third time's the charm, and that he wouldn’t be able to manipulate her again. He’d sped into the interaction intent on treating her as what she was—not a false friend, but someone he was eager to drag through the mud, merciless as ever.

May stands rigid. The crack in her words, so normally Harley’s swannasong, doesn’t come. 

“The only wiping will be your crying eyes after I win that ribbon!”

If the older Coordinator wasn’t convinced before that they were destined like zangoose and seviper, she’d pulled him far over the edge now. He doesn’t cry. He doesn't cry. He wants to scream in her pretty little face that he  _ doesn’t cry _ , dirty tricks notwithstanding. He decides in that moment that for every snappy little retort she thinks she can shoot at him, he’s going to make her cry a hundred tears. He screams. He derails.

“Speaking of which,” Harley starts. “How many do you have?”

“I’ve got two of them!” she beams, a confidence that wasn’t there before.

She’s still the most irritating little whelp Harley’s ever met. But he likes that she isn’t pretending, anymore.

“I’m impressed! I’ll bet you’re bursting your buttons!” he coos, then sharpens his tone. “But think how proud you’d be with  _ three! _ ”

He punctuates the boast by throwing open a ribbon case decorated in green diamonds, and May lets out a dismayed wail that reminds the man why he gets up in the morning. She recovers just as quickly, and  _ seriously, who are you and what have you done with little Miss Tent _ .

“Well, today I’ll find out!”

She’s under his skin. She’s under his skin like she’s never been before, and somehow, it’s a little different this time. She’s dropped the baby mareep act and is displaying her true colours in full force, confidence unburied and determination strong even in the wake of a force of nature like him. Harley can’t keep his cool, the need to beat her spills over, his words come out as shrill screams, hair a purple typhoon.

“When I beat you we’ll see how smart that mouth is!”

He regains himself, an acidic turquoise glare searing into the ocean that swirls in the girl’s own eyes. He wants to see those eyes clouded over with tears. He’s so used to getting what he wants, shouting his intents at her and seeing them waver and overflow. They’re steady now, a drive burning somewhere within them—not a single trace of the person Harley knew before. It’s got her face, and her voice, and her pokémon—but it walks and talks like it knows exactly who it is.

“It’s a date!”

When they speak, they say the exact same words in some kind of bitter, cosmic synchronicity. Harley can feel the flames crackling and spitting embers at his feet, and he only hopes May can feel the thunder of his own vengeance sending warning static up the back of her neck. A word pops into his head then, one he’s only ever known once before, one few have been worthy of:  _ rival. _

It doesn’t crystallize entirely in his head—there’s still no way she’s on the same level as him, after all. He’s looking down on her, but she seems to have gotten to higher ground since the last time they saw each other. The sea below no longer threatens to swallow her up, merely laps at her ankles like an old friend. They’re not at eye level, but May no longer drowns at his mercy.

  
  


 

May’s points tick down again, and Harley can’t help but feeling overcome with rage. Here, he’d spent the last few months loathing this girl who had skill and no confidence—now, she seems to have gained confidence but lost her skill. She hasn’t landed a single scratch on him, and his points are a steady yellow line at his back, unfaltering. He was actually starting to enjoy the prospect of always having to see her little baby face around every contest hall in Kanto, covering his hatred of her with the delicious fantasy of more opportunities to beat her down. Of course, she’s ruined it—she ruins  _ everything _ .

“You’re so predictable with your silly strategy! I had you two sussed out in a heartbeat! ” Harley says, almost  _ incredulously _ . “Why don’t you just go home, little girl?”

He genuinely means it. What’s the point in a victory if he can’t get some waterworks out of her? If he can’t play with her a little?

“Nope!” she smiles brightly. “It’s not over ‘til it’s over,  _ ‘hon!’ _ Why don’t you suss  _ this _ out!”

She calls out a Metronome, and Harley finds his veins ablaze with rage at her taking his nicknames and words and using them against him for the second time that day. He doesn’t know where the May he met back on that accursed ferry to Izabe is, and he doesn’t know who he hates more—her, or this new little spitfire of a Coordinator. Either way, she’s kept her idiotic contest movesets—always trying her luck when she doesn’t have the security to back it up, always relying on what the fates have in store for her rather than a coherent strategy.

“We are scraping the barrel, aren’t we, girl?” he taunts, and means it.

“Hit it!” May commands with aplomb, paying him no mind at all.

The confidence in her voice does something extraordinary—it sends a jolt of real, actual, tangible  _ fear _ straight through Harley’s heart. Her munchlax points a sharp target straight at Octillery, and the older Coordinator is immediately pulled out of his own bout of confidence when the reality sets in that anything can happen, that maybe May relies on luck because luck works out for her, that maybe—

The attack fizzles out. The auditorium goes silent. The dismay on his opponent’s face lifts his mood back to where it rightfully belongs, and the relief bubbles up and turns to victorious laughter on his lips.

“You can’t honestly tell me,” he says through the tears. “You’re going to rely on that silly on-again-off-again move—!”

Thunder fires from the heavens, a direct course from the makeshift skies straight to Harley’s pokémon. Octillery cries out in pain, its own sureness fading with every hundred volts that passes through its conductive nerves. The fear is back, and so is the adrenaline, and the fluttering, and the fire, and Harley can’t stop himself from wailing at the top of his lungs.

“MY BAD!”

His pokémon is  _ writhing _ , now, sparks crackling off it and searing crisscrossed burns into its skin. The older Coordinator becomes his emotions, begging Octillery to tough it out, to carry on—their points are vast in comparison to May’s little scrap, but if she manages to knock his partner out before they hit zero he’s done for. The blue flame in the girl’s eyes flares back up—her confidence is real, it’s not just a facade, this is who she is now. Harley realizes all at once he’s actually terrified he’s going to lose to her.

He breathes in. He composes himself. He swallows hard, grits his teeth, voice almost a purr in the wake of his smile. When he addresses his pokémon, it’s even-toned—not a trace of the worry bubbling below his surface.

“You do look tired,” he exhales anxiety, inhales tenacity. “I’d forgotten! Time for your nap.”

May falters as he calls the Rest, and the sound of her voice wavering washes over him like sunbeams through the clouds. She’s barely landed a hit on him and he’s about to undo all the hard work she put into action to get to that point with a smile on his face. Octillery closes its eyes, drifting off with an ethereal sort of glow. 

The May from before begins to crop up behind the new May’s eyes. Her stance shakes, her speech dips, the commands she calls are unsteady. There’s a sort of rush inside Harley he can’t put words to, as though he’s in a tug-o-war battle with himself, flip flopping back and forth between resolute and fearful. Munchlax is landing tackles and punches on his pokémon, and sweat drips down his brow in the heat of everything. He’s powerless. He can’t fight back. He can’t call a command. He can’t do anything, besides stand there with shaking fists balled and teeth pressed so hard into each other he feels they’re going to shatter. Harley can hear his heartbeat in his ears, building to a thundering crescendo. His points tick down, down to a sliver that teeters at the edge of the screen. He’s hopeless. He’s unsteady. He’s—

“Octazooka.”

_ Alive. _

Octillery awakens and fires the attack off, a scalding white light that sends Munchlax reeling backward, crying out its name in tortured surprise. The hit comes in close proximity, as it's moving in to attack—May’s final opportunity for victory now her greatest failing, snatched right out of her hands. 

“Folks, it looks like Munchlax is out!”

Applause reverberates around the hall, and Harley feels every muscle in his body lose form immediately. He feels like he’s going to melt to the ground, amorphous and jelly-legged. Jerked back and forth and rattled around, his heart finally settles into some corner of his chest where it belongs. He drops from the high altitude, where blood thins and pace quickens. The breaths are almost shakier now that he has a chance to notice them in his lungs. 

No Coordinator has ever made him feel this way before.

There’s a kindness to Solidad that leaves him soft to her, a lone angel in his personal history. Losing to her isn’t something he strives for, of course—but when he does, he’s never mad about it for long. To surpass her is a long-time goal, one he knows isn’t far off, one he finds a rare sort of serenity with. May is different.

She bats at his emotions like a skitty on caffeine pills, a patchwork of everyone she’s ever known. He can’t put his finger on her, she always keeps him guessing. Battling with May is like russian roulette, the ultimate way of pressing your luck—but she isn’t incompetent, and now, she’s fighting  _ back _ .

It isn’t until long after he’s accepted his ribbon and signed enough autographs to keep his ego strong that he realizes he didn’t even get a look at her crying face before he left. So swept up in the win, so elated from the battle, he didn’t feel the need. The thought is strange to him, and he doesn’t know what it means. That morning, he was certain it would be the highlight of his day. Now, it’s barely a second thought.

The sun is nearly set now, so he tosses Cacturne’s and Banette’s pokéballs, eager to get them some playtime before the night is through. They shimmer to life, and that word pops into Harley’s head again.

_ Rival. _

It’s a simple word, but Harley finds himself tracing over the curves of its letters in his head. Internalizing it, memorizing everything it is. 

It feels good. It feels right.

* * *

“I’m warning you, Harley,” May says with puffed-up cheeks and balled fists. “Only one person’s going to win today and get to the Grand Festival, and that’s  _ me! _ ”

Harley had seen her silhouette against the back of a window in a small Center nestled somewhere in Mulberry, and it had felt as though fate was answering his prayers. He’d been going over his win against her at Wisteria for weeks, replaying it in his head, trying to make sense of the electricity that still lingered beneath his fingernails long after the battle was over. It seemed that the May he’d met back then was here to stay, because she’s got her fangs bared same as before, picking a fight with him long before he slings a single unkind word her way. It’s positively lovely, knowing that he’s under her skin as well—knowing that this isn’t one-sided, that she feels that need to best him, too.

When she yells at him, he actually softens a little, the tension he forgot he was carrying leaving as it hits him that _she doesn’t have all her ribbons_. The idea of it was bothering him—having to face her down in the festival, having to deal with her ridiculously fickle battle style, having to put his darling pokémon on the line.

He relaxes, then smiles, then talks to her genuinely. It feels strange, but not entirely unwelcome.

“Hm… dream on, hon,” he utters. “Though, you’re cute when you’re mad.”

He punctuates it with a well orchestrated gesture, a hand-wave that’s far too graceful, and the ribbon case he’d been clutching up his sleeve topples onto the floor, face down. Knowing her part in the script, May picks it up and asks if it’s his, and he kindly excuses himself before telling her yes.

The agonized half-shout she squeaks out when she sees five ribbons sleeping inside it sounds beautiful in the acoustics of the diner, and Harley struggles to keep his cool with how it calms his nerves back down. She’s down to the wire, it seems—with four ribbons herself, and barely any more contests left to win her fifth. It explains the trace of worry hiding behind her willingness to bare claws at him—she’s not so much resolute as she is defensive.

“Oh dear, I’m such a klutz!” he says, faux-sweet. “Now you know… I’ve already won my five gorgeous ribbons, now haven’t I? No need for me to compete."

He snatches his ribbon case back, and May looks almost catatonic, staring at the empty space in her palm where it lingered moments ago. Gears are turning in her brain, trying to reason her fears away. Harley goes in for the kill.

“Of course,  _ you _ have to.”

She regains herself after a short moment, but her words lack coherency when they come out. There’s no snark left in her, but she refuses to give—staring him straight in the face, sentences like a computer chugging through data in bursts.

“You are so…” May struggles. “Annoying!”

Harley feels a lot better about the future than when he entered the space, and he smiles sweetly down at her, eyes narrowed.

“I love you too, sweetie,” he coos. “And I can’t  _ wait _ to see you lose. Ta-ta!”

He sashays off, and as he’s barely out of the establishment, he hears it—she screams, loud enough to turn heads, loud enough to make Harley’s heart sing in that way that always pushes him forward to another day.

“I can’t  _ stand _ that guy!”

_ Join the club, princess, _ he thinks quietly to himself.  _ Just remember—I’m in your head. _

An eye for an eye, he supposes.

  
  
  
  


“Unless we stop that vixen in her tiny tracks, we’re toast points! Dry and burnt to a crisp!”

The sly-eyed redhead raises a hand to her chin, considering what Harley’s proposing. The gesture doesn’t unnerve him much—if anything can be said for these losers, it’s that they’re desperate to have their fifteen seconds.

“Points taken. That twerpette is such a pain…”

The cuter Rocket speaks up, his sugar-hill voice clueless as ever. “Hold on. What could account for you harbouring all that twerpish malice?”

The question catches Harley off guard, and it almost makes him lose his cool. The urge to throttle James for inquiring about it bubbles up somewhere, but it’d be self-sabotage, and Harley can’t bear to hurt such a dashing face. 

It’s not  _ that  _ complicated a tale. For whatever reason, though, the Coordinator feels a sense of shame in the answer that wasn’t there before. Maybe it was the way the Rocket asked—as if their crimes weren’t proportionate, as if he’s any better, always running around trying to steal the same kid’s pokémon. He doesn’t know where to begin with where his loathing of May comes from. It’s so sprawling, so vast, so complicated.

He’s taken back to a morning spent baking—one of his many true loves—tossing batter at Cacturne and laughing with his entire face, sun shining through the windows of the Pokémon Center’s kitchen. Solidad had told him in one of their few-and-far-between video chats to try and make friends with the other Coordinators, and he’d rolled his eyes at her, knowing he was far above all of them. Still, networking was important, and knowing everyone was one more advantage he could have. So he baked. Food was a great love of his—and of anyone with a brain—and he knew that the bonds formed over it were twice as strong.

It’s after sunset on the Izabe ferry, and Cacturne’s out of its ball, restless in the lingering night. Harley’s half-asleep on the bathroom floor after chugging his third ginger ale, staring into the decorated shower curtain and trying to force May’s face from his mind. The ship lurches and his stomach follows, and he shuts his eyes tight in the wake of it, crystallizing her words, her saccharine smile, her always-unsteady voice. He can’t understand why she stays under his skin. He can’t fathom it. There’s something about her, something familiar, something far-off, something a contradiction he doesn’t know how to parse. He drifts off, despite everything.

She cries. She yells. She bests him. She holds her ribbon up to the sun, where it shines gold with the mark of victory, despite everything.

Harley shakes the etch-a-sketch. He’s staring her down in the back room of the contest hall, now, and her eyes are swimming with tears, her throat tight with betrayal. She begs for answers and he gives them to her straight and with vengeance dripping off his words like poison. It happens again, when he’s living through this memory—her face blows away, sandstorms in the desert. In its place, a ten year old boy blinks up at Harley with rivulets pouring from his turquoise eyes, aubergine tresses hanging limp at his cheeks. 

The boy sobs—loudly, with reckless abandon, uncaring to who can hear him—and Harley balls his fists at the spectre of his past. There are so many words lingering on his tongue, words he wants to drill into the kid’s head so that he doesn’t have to waste so much time crying, always crying, always  _ crying _ . He wants to look into the boy’s metallic eyes and tell him how much he has buried beneath the surface, how skilled a Coordinator he could become if he just shut his yap and  _ performed _ , if he stopped worrying so much, second-guessing himself so much, stuttering out his words, ending his statements as though they’re questions. If he just cried less and performed more.

There’s no way to articulate to a sobbing child to suck it up and get to besting their enemies. So Harley hates him, instead. Resents everything he is, and everyone he sees the boy in. Every Coordinator stuck behind a wall, whispering “maybe” when they should be whispering “I won’t lose."

The boy’s face lingers. He answers the question. Truthfully, at first.

“Bitter memories, that’s what.”

He lies.

* * *

The screen flashes on with green on red, and May’s standing right beside him when she yelps out his name, one part fearful and one part shocked. The cadence with which she says it is so consistent every time that he’s grown to like it, a little. It signals playtime, but more than that, it is a routine they’ve settled into. He likes the idea that no matter what changes, she’ll always say his name with that same terrified lilt, every letter unable to commit to a single pitch. He's got a place in her personal lore, however small.

Not only is it him against her at the Grand Festival, they’re the first battle to take place, the first two to stand on the stage. It’s as beautiful as it is terrifying—one of them is getting knocked out in round one, and Harley realizes in the twitch of his fingertips that he’s not entirely sure it won’t be him. He tries to remind himself that just hours ago, her pretty little boyfriend was screaming like a child having a tantrum at her. Tries to remind himself that if his nerves aren’t settled, there’s no way  _ hers _ are. He feels exhilarated. He feels desperate. He feels alive.

“It’s kismet, honey,” he says, and means it. “When it comes to fate, you smile sweetly and keep your powder dry.”

May peers up at him for a moment, and then something strange happens—she smiles. Not overconfident. Not snarky. Something about it is almost… grateful. There’s a serenity in her Harley can’t place, and when her words come out, they agree with him wholeheartedly, her voice not at all betraying what she says.

“Right,” she says brightly. “I’m sure  _ you’ve _ learned how to do that!”

Harley almost chokes on his air. The statement sounds like it’s supposed to be poking fun, but there’s something beneath it that’s hard to put words to. It’s as though May sees something in him she wasn’t privy to before. As though, despite everything, she’s gained a certain sense of respect toward him, rather than resentment. She sounds like she’s eager to take his advice. Her eyes remain steady, and she faces forward.

He tries to reason it. Now of all times, she’s utterly indifferent to him?

“You seem awfully chipper after that drag-out with Drew,” he notes.

“I’m fine!” May practically chirps. “It’s simple! We’ll just agree to disagree. That’s that!”

There’s such a wisdom to the way the girl talks, and Solidad is glowing over her shoulder, pride shining in the woman’s eyes. Harley catches them for a moment, and it softens him—it always does. It’s an effect she can’t help but having on people. Harley had intended to shake things up between the two young lovebirds to better his chances of catching May off guard when they eventually faced off. Instead, he seems to have only inspired her to climb to greater heights.

“Well if Drew’s not going to be able to make you weep, honey, then I’ll have to do the honours!”

The water doesn’t touch her ankles anymore. She’s looking Harley in the eyes, blue on blue, on the cliff-edge opposite him. Any dirty and underhanded tactic he throws at her, she catches in her arms and crafts into something more beautiful. If their life were orchestrated like a contest battle, Harley would be the loser.

_ The one who takes the rocks I throw and builds a fortress from them, _ he muses. A sentiment comes back to him, then, and he has no doubts left in his mind about it, embracing it as he should have long, long ago.

“Fine! We’ll just see about that!”

_ My rival. _

  
  


 

Harley catches a flash of red out the corner of his eye, and he follows it from a distance down the hallway to the stage area. It’s her, alright—Drew’s there, too—but something is off and it incenses him a little. She’s not the vibrant little shorty he remembers from the Grand Festival—she looks more akin to the little mareep she was when they met, her knees tucked to her chest, her face buried deep within them. They can’t see him, but he catches a glance of them every few minutes, and their conversation is loud enough in the hall’s acoustics that he can hear every breath of it. May sounds _broken_. She sounds the kind of broken he’d always wanted her to sound, the dream he strived for, once upon a time.

He doesn’t like it.

“We had all just been talking about rivals…” she says, a little sheepishly. “So of course naturally, I started thinking about you.”

Drew says something with little hesitation, and Harley finds solidarity in it he didn’t know he was searching for.

“Well, I’m honoured.”

Harley stays with this back to the wall, arms crossed, oddly transfixed as he eavesdrops. They talk about their losses, about what they’ve been doing since the festival, about how May can’t seem to push past the fog in her head. Drew asks her for a contest battle, and her confusion at it mirrors Harley’s own—how does a potential loss help another loss? To his surprise, after a beat and some encouragement from her friends, the girl accepts, and he sees his rival flare back to life from her crumpled pile on the floor. 

It isn’t until she resurfaces that he remembers the first time he met her— _ really _ met her. At Wisteria, where she had him down to the wire and was close as could be to creaming him, where his heart raced and his blood thinned, and nothing set more passion to his nerves than the thought of losing to the runt—to the girl—to May—to his rival.

She’s hurting, he can see. She’s reeling. It would be so easy to push her buttons, to break her down more, to take advantage of her lowly state. But of course, she’d only cry for a little if at all before bouncing back twice as strong. He’s no good at breaking her, and no good at cheering anyone up—not that he’d  _ want _ to, even if he does miss her fiery little jabs. Overall, there’s no point in getting his hands dirty. He pushes himself off the wall, fixing to walk away.

He hears it as he’s about to leave—the telltale voices of those  _ idiotic _ Rocket losers, plain as day. The softness in their voices says they’re no doubt wearing some equally erroneous disguises, and he has to pull himself back to realize to realize his fist is clenched tight around Cacturne’s pokéball.

Harley attacking May in a moment of vulnerability is one thing. Something about it inspires her to grow. Them, on the other hand…

He presses his lips to his partner’s capsule, imparting a strange sort of prayer into it. Harley throws the ball as he’s calling out the attack, and Cacturne fires off a round of bullets that leave the simpletons frazzled and ruined, their voices trembling in fear when they realize what the pokémon’s presence means. 

The older Coordinator is on them in an instant, slamming his hands down on the judge’s table and sharpening his voice with the needles he wears so well. Their hands are on his property, and he’s going to _ let them know _ .

“I told you,” he seethes. “The only one who messes with the squirt is  _ me! _ ”

“We—forgot—?!” they stutter, all at once, in that creepy way they do.

May’s voice comes an almost hopeful squeak behind him, and he gets the impression she’s read him right away. 

“But why are you here?”

_ I’m here because it’s what you need, _ is what he wants to say.  _ I’m here because I’ve lost to Solidad, I’m here because I’ve sulked over a loss for too long, I’m here because you’re lost and need someone to smack some sense into you. I’m here because we’re rivals, and a rival pulls you out of a depression in a way that a simple friend can not. _

Drew’s already gotten the sappy work done on that end, though. The kid’s good for something.

“To make you cry, hon,” Harley says, and it’s only a half-lie. “But I don’t need  _ any _ help from them.”

_ I’m here because I miss  _ my _ May. _

The last thought’s too tender. He almost wants to barf at it.

Almost.

* * *

By some beautiful twist of fate, they all end up in Ecruteak at once. Solidad pulls Drew and Harley into a bearhug, and both of them know there’s no point in fighting her—not that they  _ could _ . She’s got stars in her eyes when she invites them to her room at the Pokémon Center, asking if any of them have been talking to May. Drew blushes a little, and thinks he’s hiding it. Harley sees—he always does.

Harley reluctantly agrees, but there is a part of him that wants to see how May’s simplistic style fairs in the land of flashiness and sparkles that is Sinnoh. As the competition goes on, the other two notice something—he’s getting closer and closer to the television.

He starts at a lean against the wall far away, and when they offer him tea, he waves them off. He spends half of May’s appeal filing his nails, trying to hide the glances he’s stealing from behind his fingertips. Solidad notices.

When the battle starts, he complains about being tired of standing and takes the seat next to Roserade, who’s watching intently as ever, always fond of the girl. Now, May and Dawn are at each other’s throats—the field a shower of water and ice in the wake of two unrelenting young women who absolutely refuse to give even an inch. Drew and Solidad are sharing looks and trying not to laugh, because the man is standing up in his seat now, fists balled and shaking as he watches the battle.

“Who is this bratty little bluenette?!” he’s yelling through gritted teeth. “Where did she come from and who does she think she is?! I swear, if our girl doesn’t take this—”

He turns to them only to see the pair stifling laughter, and even Roserade looks like it’s chuckling behind its teacup. Harley turns on them, incredulous.

“How are you two so calm?!” he wails.

“That’s rich, coming from the guy who complained the whole way here,” Drew says.

“I had a spa day I had to cancel for  _ May, _ ” Harley shoots back. “Find me a sadder sentence in the english language than that. I’ll wait.”

“May’s fine, Harley,” Solidad says, voice steady and reassuring as ever. “Even if she doesn’t win this, you know she’ll just bounce back twice as hard.”

There’s something about the way she says it that makes Harley’s heart lurch, a little.  _ You know _ she will, it’s that, he realizes. You know May. He knows May. Because the four of them are rivals, because the four of them are friends, because the four of them—he doesn’t know how it happened—are family.

  
  
  


 

The Johto Grand Festival is looming ahead, and four Coordinators are nestled in the forest-clad mountaintops of Blackthorn City. It’s a few weeks before it starts, and because fate loves them, they all stumble into the same little coffee shop at once, hoping to unwind. May’s eyes light up, and she’s the first to propose the idea of a hangout—to clear some tension in the air, to spend some time together and catch up, to enjoy themselves before they have to face off in battle. There’s a certain reluctance in Harley and Drew, but the both of them have trouble saying no to Solidad’s enthusiastic agreement.

It’s a warm summer night, and the towering peaks seem to keep all the heat locked in the forest below. Harley sighs a little as he takes in the sight of their campground—the fire needs tending, and beyond its embers, the girl’s skitty can’t calm itself down despite the stars flickering on. It’s climbed Cacturne and is reigning like a wicked queen atop the scarecrow’s head, and Cacturne is too soft-spoken and too afraid of the fact that it knows fairy-type moves to do much of anything about it. Drew and Solidad are gone. It always goes like this—the four of them get together, and Drew and Solidad get to chatting, and then they run off somewhere to “practice appeals,” but Harley knows without a doubt they’re absolutely full of it.

As if to punctuate his suspicions, his breath hitches uncomfortably and he loudly sneezes into his sleeve, trailing it off into a sort of pathetic groan. He barely has time to regain his composure before May offers a choice comment.

“Told you that you’d catch a cold if you wore that through the Ice Path,” she chides.

“Ugh,  _ please. _ They’re talking trash, shorty!” he shoots back, as if it’s clear as day. “Drewbie and Sol always do this. Haven’t you noticed?!”

She tilts her head, a bit curiously. “Do what?”

“They always… run off together and act like they’re practicing appeals,” Harley says. “But you _know_ they’re gossiping about us. Bet Solidad’s just laughing her perfectly swooped bangs into a tussle talking about how the kid beat me in Cherrygrove.”

May rolls her eyes. “You’re so weird. Why do I always end up stuck with you?”

“Hey, girlfriend, don’t blame me,” he says, leaning back on nothing in particular. “It’s the dynamic duo that always leaves us in their dust.”

“Maybe they are practicing,” she argues. “I mean, there’s a reason they’re such amazing Coordinators, right?”

“As if,” Harley waves her off. “I don’t need mister-aqua-pants lecturing me on what stylistic integrity is.”

The girl looks at him for a moment, a little incredulously—then, without much warning, she absolutely erupts into laughter.

Harley turns, one eye closed and the other on her as tears crop up in her bright blues. She’s holding onto her ribs like they’re in danger of shattering, and he wonders for a moment if she’s mocking him somehow.

“It wasn’t  _ that _ funny,” he notes,

“His pants  _ are _ stupid!” she barely manages to get out.

All the times they’ve been stuck together, Harley realizes that him and May have never really  _ talked _ . He’s more or less followed the kneejerk impulse to zoom circles around her before vanishing, and if she’s ever extended an olive branch to him, he hasn’t noticed. They share quiet banter every once in a while, but it’s only when he sees her laughing at something that’s been an in-joke between him and Solidad for ages that he realizes just how little they’ve really spent time together outside the contest hall.

This time, there’s a different impulse at the back of his throat, and he’s not sure that he likes it, but it’s exhilarating in a sense. He inhales. He puts on the confident voice he wears so well.

“It’s like he threw a dart at a wall of paint samples and just  _ went _ with it,” Harley goes on.

“He never wears anything else, either!” May adds. “What do you think those pants have  _ seen? _ ”

“I dunno, but if either of us mysteriously die tonight,” Harley darkens. “I think we know who to blame.”

“The pants…” she follows.

“The pants,” he confirms, and the two of them lose it laughing again. 

A quiet falls over them when their laughter peters out, and the fire begins to pick itself back up again, it’s inconsistent snaps the only sound for miles in the still mountain air. Solidad and Drew are still nowhere to be seen, and Harley genuinely does wonder if he’s paranoid for thinking he’s the topic of their conversation. He wonders, for a moment, if it’s only because the alternative is so lonely.

It’s strange, when Harley steps back and realizes he’s hoping. Hoping that he has a presence in people’s lives when he’s not around. A year ago, he couldn’t care less whether people thought of him when he was gone—fame and fortune were goals to strive for, but friends were more of a burden than anything. Now, his life is laden with three people he finds himself oddly attached to, a single connecting thread between them—a girl who he spent ages trying to shatter to pieces, to make disappear.

She’s beside him now, brighter than ever. Years ago, he found his joy in her tears of sorrow. Now, he’s lost in her tears of laughter.

Skitty’s fallen asleep sprawled out on Cacturne’s hat, and Harley watches as the pokémon tenderly angles needled arms to gingerly pick the smaller creature up and set it in the soft grass. The fire crackles, embers glowing at its center. Things are so different. He wonders if it’s him that’s changed.

“May,” Harley’s voice shakes, and he feels like his chest is clogged with tar when he carries on. “There’s something I think I need to tell you.”

She turns to face him again, intimidated by the softness in his cadence. He doesn’t sound like Harley, and she mirrors his hesitance.

“Uh, okay,” she utters. “What’s up?”

The older Coordinator looks to the left, then to the right—making sure, of course, that Drew and Solidad aren’t just waiting around the corner to ambush the two of them in their quiet moment. Noctowl give quiet hoots far in the distance, gliding from tree to tree. Harley sucks in a breath, angles his whole body around to face her, but keeps his eyes on the ground.

“May, I…” he doesn’t know where to begin. He tries to talk himself through it—Honestly, it’s just a couple sentences, a couple words. If you rehearse them enough, they fall off the tongue just as easily as your favourite song.

Easier said than done. He chokes out the simplest part, first.

“I—I’m sorry,” he says, unable to face her.

“Harley,” she peers into him. “What for?”

It’s then that he snaps blue-green eyes to hers, incredulous in his response. “What do you  _ mean _ ‘what for’?! Do you want an alphabetized list, squirt?!”

“I mean, maybe not that extensive, but—”

He sighs—loudly, dramatically, in a distinctly Harley way. It takes a moment for him to calm down, and he sounds almost tired when he talks to her again, eyes back to the side.

“When we first met, I…” he doesn’t know how to justify anything he’s done. He knows what it meant to him, why he did it, but explaining that to a stranger is like actually filling a pokédex. It just isn’t going to happen in his lifetime.

“...I was horrible to you. I don’t know how else to say it.”

May’s silent. She’s waiting for him to continue, so he does.

“I don’t want to sit here and make excuses,” it’s then that he finally manages to bring his eyes back to hers. “And I know we’ve been through this song and dance before. I mean, how many times have I apologized to you just like this? And how many times did it turn out to just be another dirty trick?”

She lets the sentiment sit, and smiles a little sadly at her hands, running her thumbs across themselves from their position in her lap. Harley continues.

“It’s strange, but...” he says. “In this last year or so I’ve… I’ve realized that you’re more than just my favourite rival.”

May makes a small noise of curiosity, surprised to be declared so high in the interpersonal ranking of Harley, of all people. 

“I think... you're one of my closest friends,” he says. “It’s a feeling I’ll admit I don’t know as well as I could.”

“Harley…” she says, softly. May doesn’t know where this is all coming from, but she can hear tears threatening his voice, ones he sounds desperate to bury. She’s never seen him like this, and feels almost bad—voyeuristic, like she’s somehow taking advantage of him.

“I don’t wanna play tricks on you anymore, May,” he admits. “I just want to feel the thrill of being able to stand on equal ground with you in the contest hall.”

She can see it, now—genuine, actual brightness in his eyes, tears pooling that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. He refuses to let them spill over, refuses to bend to their will. 

“And I know I’ve tried this old line before,” he smiles sadly. “But if you never forgive me, I totally underst—”

Harley isn’t able to finish his sentence. May moves faster than he can talk, pulling her arms around him and burying her face in his chest. The gesture startles him, but not in the way things normally do—he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, doesn’t yelp. Harley simply sucks in a trembling breath, and for the first time in years, he lets it happen.

He cries. Real tears. Over what he’s done, over what he’s seen, over the life he’s lived. They’re silent as they roll down his cheeks and onto the girls bandanna, his jaw tight as he keeps heaving breaths at bay. He forgot what this feels like, so exhausting and so relieving all at once.

“Harley,” May muffles into his shirt, then turns her head to the side so he can hear her better. “Harley. I forgive you.”

The words are so simple, but they do so much to him. His voice is waterlogged, his hands find their way to her back. Normally, he hugs with reckless abandon—crushing the life out of his friends, cheek to cheek. Now, he can barely keep his arms around her, static in his muscles.

“Why?” he chokes out. “How could you? May, I wanted to  _ break _ you—”

“Yeah, and you were the worst part of my day every time you popped in,” she acknowledges, and something about the biting words feel  _ good _ to Harley. “But somewhere along the way, you kinda turned into more than that.”

He echoes the feelings—things _did_ change—but he doesn’t understand what happened to them. He can’t fathom how they got from that Izabe ferry to now.

“Harley, whenever I was feeling bad about myself, you’d show up,” she explains as she pulls away from him. “At first, it really got me down how you always pretended to be my friend. But once you actually started acting like my enemy… what can I say, it got me fired up!”

She grabs his hands, and the gesture is so soft, so reminiscent of years ago when he’d do the same to her in hopes that it would help mislead her. This time, it’s real.

“You’re petty, and spiteful, and full of unchecked vengeance,” she says. “And y’know what? I needed all of that. Just like everyone else, you rubbed off on me!”

“You couldn’t have picked one of my more charming traits?” he uncharacteristically deadpans, and May laughs.

“Nope! Cause I was already pretty charming,” she winks. “Sometimes, what I needed wasn’t love to drive me forward. Sometimes, I just needed to win out of spite.”

Harley marvels at her, unsteady at how much sense she’s making. She says it with such confidence, it’s like she hasn’t spent all this time loathing him at all.

“It still doesn’t excuse what I’ve done, May,” he protests.

“‘Course it doesn’t! You acted like a real jerk and I’m glad you feel like trash about it,” May says far too cheerfully. “But I forgive you. Because despite everything, I think you made me a better person, Harley.”

The tears are back, they sneak up on him before he can push them far down. He doesn’t even notice until they’re halfway down his cheeks, he’s too shocked by how easy she’s made all this, even though she really doesn't have to.

“And between you and me…”

She goes back in for another hug, and he tries with all he is not to lose it in her arms again.

“When I see you acting like a jerk, I’m not really angry,” she says softly, in case prying ears are listening. “I’m just sad that at some point in your life, you felt like you had to become that way.”

He breaks. He sobs. He clings to May for dear life, fingernails buried into the fabric of her shirt, head leaning on her own. It’s the first time in his life he’s ever embraced someone like this, and it’s a feeling he never knew he was starving for. May closes her eyes, and keeps on.

“The needles don’t fool me, Harley,” she near-whispers. “I know you’re a good person underneath them, okay? I hope… someday, I can be as strong as you.”

He finds his voice. “You should hope you never have to.”

She doesn’t have the heart to argue, so instead, she finishes the thought, hugging him tighter. Visions swim in her head—of every time he’s cornered some poor fool who beat her in a contest, who picked on her a little too much, who refused to leave her alone.

“Thanks for always looking out for me.”

He lets his tears fall silently, waiting for them to fade as the two of them stay locked in each other’s arms. Off in the distance, his pokémon is staring up at the shining moon above, pretending it isn’t privy to the whole conversation, pretending its heart isn’t swelling with pride. Once upon a time its master screamed himself seasick at the mere thought of this other human. Now, they’re holding onto each other like they can’t bear to let go. 

Harley closes his eyes. That boy is there again—the one with the seaglass gaze that never dries. He’s spent years hating the child, wanting to throttle him, knock some sense into him, at the very least run far away from him. In his mind’s eye, Harley leans down to the kid’s level. The boy flinches in anticipation of what he's going to do, amethyst curls jerking with his head. In a single, tender motion, the Coordinator thumbs away his tears. The crybaby looks up at his future self, confusion and gratitude shining in his teary blues. He smiles, and Harley opens his eyes, and the boy is gone. His wavering heart settles.

“Your stupid cacturne outfit’s false advertising,” May says, clinging to him. “You’re really good to hug.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts, gingerbread cookie,” Harley smiles—genuinely, fully, gratefully.

She does.

  
  
  


 

**_Wipe the mark of madness from my face_ **

**_Show me that your love will never change_ **

**_If my yesterday is a disgrace,_ **

**_Tell me that you’ll still recall my name._ **


End file.
